Like Breathing
by spicari
Summary: "So," Sam says eventually, casting around for an opening. "Do *you* sing? I mean, you're an angel, right?" There is another very long pause. Lucifer simply ceases to move at all, taking on the unnerving angelic otherness he sometimes displays when Sam manages to genuinely surprise him. "Not in a long, long time," the archangel replies softly. -Or, the one time Lucifer sang for Sam.


Lucifer is watching the carol singers.

Sam is leaning back against the side of his borrowed car, and he's watching the archangel – sideways though, out of the corner of one eye. While he's watching he's sipping slowly on a cup of bitter black take-out coffee, and trying to ignore the numbing cold gradually seeping through his boots and into his feet. It's _freezing_ out today and there's reports of snow on the way tonight. But it's not the weather that has Sam's attention right now, it's the fallen archangel at his side.

Lucifer is staring. His eyes are narrowed and his brows are drawn down in something that's somewhere between a frown and a grimace. If it wasn't for the fact that Sam knows, he _knows_, that the archangel is on their side, then he'd be seriously concerned for the welfare of the singers. He's seen that look before. It's the one Lucifer turns on people that have reached the top of his shit list. The question is why?

Sam wraps gloved fingers around his polystyrene cup and follows the archangel's gaze out across the parking lot. This tiny northern town is getting ready for Christmas, and the group of carol singers standing before store fronts done up in lights and tinsel is almost holiday card perfect. It feels strange to be out here alone with Lucifer, but Dean and Cas aren't due in town for another two days. This time last year standing alone in the flesh with the Devil would have sent Sam into paroxysms of panic, but a lot has happened since then.

It's been eight months since they stopped the Apocalypse, since Dean caught his hand as he fell and let the Cage rip the Devil's grace right back out of him, and six since Lucifer turned up on their doorstep claiming Divine Intervention, begging in that wry, proud, inscrutable way of his for redemption. And now Sam stands with the Devil at his side, far to the north in a frozen parking lot calmly watching the locals getting ready for Christmas. Crazy.

Sam divides his time between listening to the drifting voices and trying to keep a surreptitious eye on Lucifer. For his part the archangel's grimace has faded into something passive and watchful. He has that angelic stillness to him that he sometimes falls into when there's no-one but Sam around, no-one for whom he has to pretend. Sam finds he does it most when his mind is elsewhere, or he's concentrating on something intently. Remembering to play human at all times is still something the archangel finds difficult, no matter how hard he tries.

The carol singers have moved on to a rendition of _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing_ and Sam's mind wanders. He remembers singing this at a carol service he went to with Jess, years ago now. The memory of it makes him smile sadly. Back then so much was different, least of all his understanding of exactly what it was they were singing about. If he'd known then what he knows now would anything have changed? He looks down into his cooling coffee and his smile fades.

"No matter how they try, they are but a pale shadow of the Host's glory. The voices of my siblings on that day filled the Earth with their triumph."

Sam looks up at Lucifer, his eyebrows rising in 's something that sounds strangely like wonder in the other's voice, and that strikes Sam as somehow unexpected. The Devil, marvelling at the triumph of Heaven. But of course, Lucifer wasn't on Earth at that time, he was still locked in his Cage. The thought of that is sobering, and Sam wonders if that was the cause of his earlier grimness. To listen to humans singing about something none of them were even alive to see, let alone something with which your own family was directly involved. Which is a crazy thought in itself. The creature that leans so easily next to him was alive when the events of this carol were still ongoing. He would have personally known the people involved, the angels at the very least.

Sam wonders if Gabriel had really been there, like the Bible has it. He wonders if he was one of the singers too. That's not really the kind of thing he wants to ask Lucifer though, considering as far as any of them know Gabriel has remained dead. It's a sore subject with Lucifer that he's only made the mistake of broaching once. The archangel's cold and forbidding response had been enough to put Sam off of ever asking again. In truth, despite all the crap Gabriel had put them through, Sam still can't help but think of him sometimes.

"Everyone," Lucifer says quietly. "To answer your question, Sam. It was everyone. Every angel in Heaven and on Earth raised their voices in celebration. Even in Hell we heard them. There could have been no escaping that glory, it shook the very foundations of Creation."

"You're ah, you're reading my mind," Sam says awkwardly, torn between wanting to acknowledge the incredible things he's hearing and wanting Lucifer to stay out of his head. He's had more than his fill of the Devil playing around in there.

Lucifer turns to him, stares, his mouth slightly open and his eyebrows raised as though he cannot believe that Sam has chosen to quibble over privacy rather than react with awe to his words. Sam can't quite find it in himself to feel sorry for that.

Lucifer straightens, his mouth closes and his expression resumes that familiar vaguely mocking cast that Sam's so accustomed to. But the expected retort doesn't come, as is so often the case these days. It's something Sam's still not entirely used to.

"It was a big deal, Sam," Lucifer says, lifting one palm in a shrug before he folds his arms again. "You kids these days, you just don't appreciate it."

Sam shakes his head, huffing laughter and refuses to meet the archangel's gaze. He looks out across the parking lot towards the distant carol singers and wonders why they're even talking about this. His opinion on religion, on God and Heaven and all the rest of it, it's changed so much since he was a kid. All the fairy tales have turned out to be toting big sharp teeth, even the nice ones, and that's to say nothing of the utter mess that his faith ended up being based on. He's not sure what he believes any more.

"Okay," he says eventually.

The archangel is still watching him, apparently expecting more. Sam can feel the weight of his attention like an iron bar across his shoulders and he draws a breath, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. There's silence between them for almost a minute before Lucifer chuckles, and turns away, shaking his head. The removal of his gaze is like lifting the iron bar and Sam can actually feel himself breathing more easily.

"You don't understand, Sam. How could you possibly understand?"

"Then tell me," Sam replies sharply. "Tell me what you're talking about." Because reformed Devil or not there's always something else with Lucifer, some other meaning behind even the most innocent conversation that he dangles before Sam as though waiting for him to realise he should be reaching out to grab it. Like Sam's a slow child that needs help working everything out. It drives him mad sometimes, because even when he's supposedly working with them Lucifer can't seem to stop himself from doing it.

The archangel's quiet for so long that Sam thinks he's not going to answer, and he's just about to toss the dregs of his coffee and get back in the car when he finally speaks.

"To sing is angelic," he says eventually. "It is _being_."

Lucifer pauses as though uncertain, and his expression indicates that he's reaching for words to put into human language something utterly other. "To sing is...to breathe. I believe you can understand that comparison, Sam."

Not really, Sam thinks, but he doesn't give voice to the thought.

"So," he says eventually, casting around for an opening. "Do _you_ sing? I mean, you're an angel, right?"

There is another very long pause. Lucifer simply ceases to move at all, taking on the unnerving angelic otherness he sometimes displays when Sam manages to genuinely surprise him. Which is strange, because Sam had thought the question a rather obvious follow-on.

"Not in a long, long time," the archangel replies softly.

The answer surprises Sam and his eyebrows shoot up. Again, he'd been expecting sarcasm or derision, not this quiet admission that feels strangely like a confession. He looks sideways at Lucifer, and finds to his surprise that the angel's expression has changed, from angelic blank to something Sam can't quite read.

"I guess the Cage wasn't exactly the best place for that kind of thing," he says.

Lucifer draws in a long, slow breath - something Sam is sure remains merely an affectation - and does not reply. He doesn't meet Sam's gaze either, his eyes wandering over the distant storefronts. The carol singers have stopped, looking now as though they're going to disperse, and the archangel's interest in them appears to have waned. Sam wonders if he's said the wrong thing.

Suddenly, Lucifer's lips twist into that wry, sardonic smirk he wears when he's had enough of a line of questioning, and he pushes himself upright in one fluid movement.

"You need to rest, Sam. It was a long journey. I'll find you later."

And with that he's gone, and Sam is left standing alone in the empty parking lot watching as the first snow of the night begins to fall.

* * *

><p>The motel is about ten miles out of town, which is a little distant, but after the hours of driving it took to get up here Sam doesn't really care. The place is clean and just off a route that's big enough he's not too concerned about road conditions if the snow gets worse. On the other hand he made sure to stock up on supplies before he left town. If nothing else, Dean will happily eat anything left unguarded.<p>

Lucifer still hasn't returned, which isn't particularly unusual. The archangel comes and goes, often turning up when Sam stops for gas or to rest, but never when he's driving. Most of the time he'll show up once he and Dean have settled into a motel for the night, sometimes to find out what they're planning, others to offer advice. Very rarely does he come for conversation alone, at least not when Dean is around. Unsurprisingly Dean is less than tolerant of the archangel, apparent change of heart or not. Sam can't blame him.

Since it's just him for a few days though, Sam had been expecting the archangel to turn up sooner rather than later. Far be it for Lucifer to miss a chance to try and win him over again. No matter how he might protest, some things never change.

But it's nearly eleven at night by the time Sam's unpacked everything from the car and tossed his bags into an acceptable pile on the floor, and the motel room is still just him and the clanking of the radiator. He taps out a quick text to his brother, waits for the reply and then turns in for the night.

He's not sure what it is that wakes him. He was dreaming, he thinks. There was light, bright and beautiful, and someone, somewhere, calling his name. Bells too, high and tinkling, and far off the low roll of thunder. Sam comes awake suddenly, sitting up in bed as though he's awoken from a nightmare, but curiously calm. From sleep to awareness in an instant and the sensation leaves him confused.

The room around him is silent, and the electric glow of the bedside clock tells him it's 3.01am. He listens to the room, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. All is quiet and still. Years of hunting have taught him not to trust in anything so simple, but there's something else here tonight that somehow sets him at ease. Sam can feel the complete lack of alarm in his system and he's been doing this long enough to know that's not normal.

Quietly, he slides his legs out from under the sheets and grabs for a shirt. He's halfway across the floor to the window before he realises that for once he's not brought his gun with him. The realisation stops him cold, and he hesitates. Grab weapon, situation check, investigate. Anything else is asking to be put down fast. But there's something different in the air tonight, a feeling he can't quite name. It's like...anticipation. Like the whole world is waiting for something to happen.

Sam just hopes that something isn't going to involve monsters and violence.

The window is frosted up from the outside, and he frowns. Rubbing it with a palm does nothing but nearly burn the skin on his hands, and so reluctantly he casts around for boots and warmer clothes, before moving over to unlock the door. Throughout it all he finds himself lacking any feeling of urgency, save for an odd sensation of heightened perception. That and a thrill of adrenaline through his body he recognises as excitement, but for what he cannot say. Mystical anticipation be damned though, he's got his gun tucked into his belt now.

When he opens the door he can't help his soft sound of surprise. There is snow up to his thighs piled in a small drift against his door. It peters out as his gaze moves out across the parking lot, but he can see from the snow that's built up on the roofs of the few cars that almost two feet has fallen while he's been asleep. The radio had mentioned the possibility of snow, but nothing like this. Briefly he considers going back for some extra layers, but then realises he doesn't really have anything suitable. He hadn't packed for weather like this because as far as they'd known, it wasn't due yet.

Sam looks out across the parking lot, over the unbroken surface of the snow, and out towards where the land rises up into the woods beyond. Somewhere up there something is waiting. He's not sure what, and for some reason that doesn't bother him. The night sky has cleared, not a snow cloud in sight, and there's nothing but the stars and a fat half moon in the sky. It makes the area bright and eerily beautiful - inviting in its pristine perfection.

Sam sets out. Once he's through the drift that's collected against his door, the going gets easier, though it's still not long until his pants are soaked up to the knees. Any other time he would have stopped, thought more about this, but not tonight. There's something out there that won't, _can't_, wait.

It doesn't take him long to reach the first of the trees. The woods are thin enough to walk through, clearly someone's been clearing trails, and he finds one which feels as though it's headed in generally the right direction. The unbroken snow tells him that he's the first living creature to have come this way, and the silence confirms it. Very quickly it becomes too dark to really see properly, and he flicks his phone on, realising only then that it's his sole source of light. _What has gotten into me tonight?_ he thinks absently, almost completely unconcerned by this turn of events.

It's not until he's been walking for nearly ten minutes that he sees the shadows ahead beginning to lighten. Something in him tells him that he's near his destination. He can feel a tension in the air - a prickling amongst the stillness, a _cold_ that's more than just the snowfall. Sam pauses briefly, and that's when he hears it. The sound is breathy, whispered, a thousand hushed voices layered one over another. It rises and falls softly, breaking off and fading. The moment he hears it Sam freezes and every hair on his body stands on end.

_That has to be-_, he thinks, and breathless suddenly, begins to move slowly down the path.

The path ends at a clearing. Sam sees the other person only once he's already sure who it is, who is _has_ to be.

"Lucifer," he says.

The archangel, standing with hands in his pockets as he looks up at the sky, turns his head to regard him. "Hello, Sam."

That prickling sensation he's been feeling all across the tips of his nerves fades under the angel's gaze, and for the first time since he woke up Sam feels like he's snapped out of whatever fugue he's been in. "What are you-? Was that you that woke me up?"

Lucifer shrugs. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"What are you doing…?" Sam asks slowly, looking around the snow covered clearing. The snow is piled high here, almost past his knees. "Is this you?"

Lucifer follows Sam's gaze down to the snow in which he stands, and shrugs once. "I burn cold," he says simply.

"No kidding," Sam laughs quietly. Even now, after so much exposure to their kind, the nature of angels surprises him.

Lucifer gives him a slow half-smile, and then turns away, looking back up at the sky. Sam watches him for a moment, unsure exactly what he should do. The archangel seems at peace out here, and he wonders if he's perhaps interrupting something private. But then Lucifer doesn't seem concerned by his presence, or irritated in any way. And besides, Sam really would like to know what woke him up like that.

He takes a few steps forward into the clearing, pushing through the piled up snow and noting that Lucifer must have been here since before it began considering there's no other footprints to mar its surface. "Uh, really though," he slows to a halt. "What are you doing? I mean, was that you I heard earlier? In bed, back in the motel. I heard _something_."

Even at this distance he catches the soft sigh of breath that Lucifer exhales. It doesn't cloud the air, because Lucifer is cold all the way through, but he can hear it nonetheless.

"You should go back, Sam. Go back to sleep," the archangel says. He has his arms folded now, and Sam thinks he might have closed his eyes.

"Why? What's wrong?"

Lucifer shifts slightly, dipping his head. He still hasn't turned around and Sam can only guess at his expression. The low, intimate tone of his voice tells him that something's up though. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Yeah, you said that. But you did, so what gives? What are you doing out here?"

"Persistent," Lucifer observes. "One of your more strangely charming qualities, when you put it to good use."

Sam flicks an eyebrow up in response to that. "Thanks."

The archangel looks over his shoulder at him, an indulgent smile twisting his lips. He stares at the human for a long moment, long enough for Sam to wonder if this is some kind of test.

"No test," Lucifer murmurs.

Sam gives him a look that says quite clearly _out of my head!_, but Lucifer doesn't react. Instead he locks gazes with Sam and does not look away. "Tell me, Sam. What did you hear?"

The question shouldn't take him by surprise, but the rawness of Lucifer's voice certainly does. It throws Sam off for a moment and he breaks the angel's gaze to collect his thoughts. "I ah, well. It was, it was strange. It was like I woke up because someone was calling me, but I didn't hear anyone. Like a dream almost?"

Sam tilts his head questioningly at Lucifer and the archangel nods once. "Go on," he says.

Folding his arms for warmth, and tucking his gloved hands beneath them, Sam casts around for a way to describe what he thought he'd heard. The intensity of Lucifer's gaze makes him want to try, despite not really knowing how to put it into words. The archangel is waiting though, and it's hard not to react to his look of expectation.

"I heard...bells, I think," he tries slowly. "Bells, and I guess this sounds crazy, but, I heard _light_. At least, that's how my brain interpreted it. You know what dreams are like. It was like hearing something, but not. Like if I'd only listened harder then maybe I'd have heard it properly."

Lucifer is searching his expression, looking for something that Sam can't work out. It appears as though he'll speak, but then he hesitates and turns away, leaving Sam confused and slightly disturbed. Lucifer is not usually coy; he tends more towards the direct - painfully so sometimes.

"Are you going to tell me what it is that's eating you?" he asks. "Lucifer? Seriously, I- ...are you okay?"

Sam pauses when he realises that the archangel has tensed up. Lucifer moves and sits and lies himself down like a big cat. He prowls and drapes himself over things and relaxes in every way that Castiel does not. He's at home in his skin with his magnificent lack of concern for anyone but himself. He is not tense, or awkward, or stricken. But right here and now he holds himself as though wounded and hiding it.

"Lucifer?" Sams asks tentatively.

"Enough," the archangel says softly. "Enough, Sam."

Cold, frustrated, and somewhat on edge now, Sam refuses. He takes the last few steps towards Lucifer, and almost reaches out to pull him round by the arm. His nerve gives out at the last moment though, and instead he steps around the archangel until he can see his face. Lucifer looks pained.

"Seriously, man. You have to give me something here. What is going on with you?"

There are a hundred and one things that might trouble the archangel that fell so hard from grace that his Father sent his eldest son to lock him away forever; the archangel who returned regardless and tried to bring about the end of the world. There has been so much death, so much betrayal and pain, enough to last an eternity and doesn't Sam know it. From a purely human perspective he can only just begin to imagine what goes through the Devil's mind, and very little of it is complimentary or easy to sympathise with. The woes of angels and their ilk are something he still doesn't think he's entirely qualified to speak on.

He knows that Lucifer trails them because his Father has sent him back on a path towards redemption. He suspects that there is an element of compulsion there too, something that Lucifer obeys because to do otherwise would mean terrible things for him. He guesses that Lucifer stays not only because his Father wills it, but because no-one else in Heaven will have him.

"That _was_ you," Sam says finally, as understanding slowly crystallises. "That was you...singing."

"Sam."

The Devil speaks his name like a warning, or a plea for mercy. His blue eyes are cold, and something dangerous burns in their gaze. But Sam has felt the Devil's wrath before, and in this moment he does not fear him.

"Why did you stop?" he asks, refusing as he always has done to be cowed.

Lucifer tilts his head to one side, predatory and aggressive, the look that Sam has come to understand is the true expression he wears in place of uncertainty. Lucifer attacks, even when he's on the defensive, even when he needs you to believe you have him wrong-footed. Lucifer wounded is not the sorrowful, soft-voiced hurt he'd have a person believe. It's the snap and snarl of aggression put out there to come back at you ten times stronger than you've gone at him. But Sam's had the Devil on his trail and in his head for a long time now, and he's learned a few things himself.

"I thought you were an angel," he says.

"Not anymore," Lucifer growls, and with a thrill of adrenaline Sam realises that he's won. The Devil is unbalanced and on the attack and that means he's hitting his mark.

"If you're not an angel, then why were you singing?"

Lucifer unfolds his arms, takes a step forward and suddenly Sam can feel the weight of his presence beating on the air all around. It feels like a vice has squeezed tight around his lungs, as though his legs are weighted down with lead, and a primal, awful terror coils in his soul.

"Lucifer," he gasps, and the archangel draws up short.

Suddenly the weight of his being is gone, and Sam can breathe again. The wood is just a wood, and not a boiling mass of living shadow, and the moonlight falls freely across the snow. He gasps for breath, his eyes on Lucifer. For his part the angel leans back, deliberately giving him space. The edge of something angry is still there in his eyes though.

"You want to hear me sing?" Lucifer asks, and his voice is soft, dangerous.

Between them lies the vastness of the gap between human and archangel, the threat implicit in the angel's tone not necessarily one made through ill intent. He is, in the very Biblical sense, vast and unknowable. But Sam has spent long enough around the Devil now to know that what lies between himself and Lucifer is something quite different. They are linked, the two of them. Through history and fate and the desire to push at one another until one of them gives.

"Why not?" Sam manages.

For a moment Lucifer looks as though he might yet refuse, and then the tension goes out of him, fading from his face and shoulders into the frozen winter night. There is a heartbeat's hesitation, and then he rests his gaze on Sam and sings.

Had he been asked what he would expect the Devil's voice to sound like, Sam might have chosen something based on what he thinks Nick's body could have produced. Decent most likely, a reasonable tenor perhaps. Suited to singing with an eye for irony, and a wistful edge that catches on the long notes.

Lucifer's voice is nothing like this. He sings, and the world goes still. Like the light that shines out from behind a furious angel's eyes, his voice contains tones that reach beyond the capacity of mortal flesh to create. He sings, and his voice is at once a chorus of whispers and a pure, mellifluous bell of sound that carries up and up into the moonlit sky. It cuts straight through Sam, finding its way into his bones, coiling in his belly, and making his soul tremble in anticipation. The shock of it makes his mouth fall open in amazement. Later, he realises he might have fallen to his knees had Lucifer not reached out a hand and placed it flat against his shoulder.

The archangel pauses, and Sam wavers on his feet. Around them the night is utterly still, entirely silent. The air retains the charge that he'd felt when he'd woken from sleep in the motel, but now up close to the origin of its creation, it tingles across his skin and makes his every limb tremble. Around them snowflakes have begun to spiral from the cloudless sky.

"Wow," Sam breathes.

Lucifer crooks a tentative half-smile, and for the first time ever, Sam thinks he sees something close to nervousness in him. The archangel is understandably proud of what he is, and what he can do, but he wants for Sam to see it too. He's seeking approval from him, Sam realises with a shock. The Devil, shy of his own voice.

"That was incredible," he says, and cannot keep the grin off his face. "I mean, _wow._ You really do sing like an angel! I mean, obviously, but-!"

Sam laughs helplessly, still giddy from the effect of the archangel's voice, and Lucifer's lips curve further into a smile. The angel's hand drops from his shoulder and is shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He shrugs and doesn't reply, but he doesn't seem inclined to stop Sam from praising him. It is perhaps a very long time since anyone has given praise to Lucifer and meant it.

Something occurs to Sam suddenly, and he pauses, tilting his head to one side. "How come when Cas spoke to Dean, Dean said it was like nails on glass? He said it was one of the most head-splitting things he'd ever heard."

Lucifer flicks an eyebrow and shrugs. "You're my true vessel, Sam. You were made for me. If you couldn't bear the sound of my true voice that would render you somewhat useless to me."

"Huh," Sam replies, and it's not until much later that he realises the mention of vessels did not upset him. Instead he's busy thinking of the implications of this. "So is that your true voice then?"

Lucifer considers him for a moment, and then shakes his head. "Not even close."

"Huh," Sam repeats.

For a long moment they pause and contemplate each other. Sam is working himself up to asking, and Lucifer must know what's coming because he takes a long, deep breath and straightens. Before Sam can even speak, he says, "That's a big ask there, Sam. Do you even know what that could do to you?"

Sam weighs his options up and his expression is answer enough. Lucifer frowns, but his eyes still hold that same intensity, as though he's interested in showing this off too, despite the consequences. Sam wonders briefly if getting into another game of chicken with the Devil is such a good idea. He's seen Lucifer do terrible things, but he's also seen the side of Lucifer that lived in his head for the short time on the run-up to the Apocalypse. He saw Lucifer fall for a second time too, remembers the horror and terrible surprise in those burning eyes as he reached for Sam and fell anyway.

And of course, that's why Sam's here with Lucifer and Dean isn't. That's why Lucifer's still allowed with them in the first place, God's will be damned. Because no matter what they might want, the past hasn't changed and Sam is, was, and always has been made to complement Lucifer. The only thing that's changed now is how he chooses to do so.

"I can take it, right?" he says.

Lucifer is quiet for the time it takes Sam to breathe in and out, long and slow.

"You will not burn, I would not allow it."

Strangely, he finds that reassuring.

Lucifer raises a hand to Sam's forehead and brushes fingertips across his skin, past his eye and down the plane of his cheek. The fingers fall to his shoulder and he grasps the thick material of Sam's coat, his grip as immovable as a mountain's weight.

When he sings this time, it is unlike anything Sam has ever experienced.

The world brims over with light. His mind and body are filled with it; his soul resonates with its beauty. It is the pure white light of Lucifer, the Morningstar, the first and brightest star at dawn. He who brings hope in the darkness and the banishment of night. His voice is glory incarnate, beauty and awe intertwined with the awareness of his own magnificence. When he sings he sings in praise of Creation itself, and his song reflects both his Father's glory and his own.

Lucifer's voice is bass and baritone, tenor and soprano. He sings from the depths of the underwater valleys to the heights of the stars. It is an icy touch that burns with the breath of the cold between galaxies; the clarion call of dawn, and the wonderful symmetry of all that exists. It is completeness, and joy, and pride. And threaded throughout it all is a grief so deep and boundless that it breaks Sam's soul to hear it. The world smells of ozone and tears, and the terrible scent of burning.

It is finally over only when Sam has gone past thinking he can bear no more. He finds himself on his knees in the snow and weeping, and he discovers that he cannot stop even now silence has once more fallen. The world still rings with the glory of Lucifer's voice, and he is bereft without it. It takes him longer than it should to realise that he doesn't kneel alone. He kneels in the circle of Lucifer's arms, his forehead pressed against the archangel's chest, the pad of Lucifer's thumb rubbing circles into the muscle of his neck. The archangel is repeating his name softly, over and over.

It takes some time before Sam can gather himself enough to reply.

"You _are_ an angel," he whispers.

And Lucifer laughs, bright and surprised. "I am," he replies. "But you already knew that, Sam."

Sam laughs against his chest, utterly exhausted for no reason he can understand, and Lucifer takes him by the shoulders and pushes him back gently to peer into his eyes.

"Still here," Sam says, as he meets the archangel's look of assessment.

"Hmm," is the only reply.

Shaking his head to clear the fuzziness, Sam nonetheless finds himself reluctant to let go of the last of the euphoric feelings buzzing around his system. He still has the stupid grin on his face, and no matter how much he'd like to wipe it off it's stuck. He leans back in Lucifer's grip, looking around to orientate himself, and his eyes widen.

"What the hell is that?" he asks.

Lucifer gives their surroundings a brief glance and shrugs. "I told you, Sam. I burn cold."

They kneel within a hollow of snow, drifts rising up around them on all sides, high enough that whilst kneeling Sam is unable to see over the top of them. He gapes, then struggles to his feet, Lucifer setting steadying hands on his upper arms to help him. Standing now, he's able to see that the clearing is filled with snow, just a little higher than his waist, even though the sky above is clear and full of stars. By the light of the moon he's able to see icy patterns of frost skating their way across the surface of the snow in intricate whorls and sigils. They make a swirling design that Sam's seen only in the most ancient of texts, and the oldest of the ritual books. It expands out from their position in fractal designs that fascinate the eye and reflect the moonlight back in sharp, glittering curves.

"It's beautiful," he whispers.

Lucifer looks out across the patterns his singing has wrought and nods once. His eyes find their way back to Sam, but the hunter isn't watching him any more. He's turning a slow circle instead, looking out across the beauty of the snowfall and its angelic decoration.

"What does it mean?" he breathes.

"It's a manifestation of my singing," Lucifer replies carefully, and Sam turns to look him in the eye. "A reflection of my voice."

Sam gives a soft huff of amazement and looks down at the hollow in which they stand. It's not entirely circular, more like an angular oval, and it takes him a moment to work out what's caused it. _Wings_, he thinks dazedly, _sheltering us_, and looks up at Lucifer. For his part, the archangel merely raises his eyebrows. Sam cannot help the amazed laugh that escapes him.

"Uh, is this-... I mean. Is this covering the entire wood?"

The archangel shifts, folding his arms, and gives his characteristic shrug of _what can you do?_ "And then some," he replies.

"Oh wow," Sam laughs, shaking his head.

"_Arch_angel, Sam," Lucifer reminds him.

"I know, but…!"

He's still laughing when he reaches out to touch his fingertips gingerly to the nearest whorl of frost patterning, deeply aware of the archangel at his back. "Well, I guess Cas and Dean aren't getting here tomorrow." He stumbles slightly and Lucifer reaches out a hand to steady him again. "Glad I bought in those supplies now."

Sam turns back to Lucifer and doesn't miss the strangely satisfied look on the archangel's face. Nor does he miss the fingertips that lightly brush his hip as the archangel reaches up and removes a snowflake that's caught on the strands of his hair. The angel's gaze is thoughtful as he lets his hand drop again, and full of self-satisfaction.

Sam smiles at him, and slowly, Lucifer returns it.


End file.
